The lie managed to explain away your sometimes shaky Shanghainese and the way you gravitated toward your mother, even unconsciously. The neighbors left us alone, at least for a while, and Mother holed up in her workshop.

Our mothers never wore qipaos out anymore. They swapped their dresses for drab blue clothing, doing their best to go unnoticed. The few times I had to run an errand, even Grandmother told me to ride my bicycle, no matter how improper. Gasoline was far too expensive, and they wanted me home as quickly as possible. I’d bike past the old cabarets and restaurants that once teemed with Americans. They were still popular, thriving even, but now with a new set of patrons: the Germans, the Italians, and of course, the Japanese.

At the beginning, the police came often, collaborationists of the puppet government. Your mother tried to charm them in her usual way. They were gruff and uninterested. If they brought a Japanese official with them—tan uniform, bayonet at his side—our mothers made us hide behind carefully placed boxes of graphite. One time, the policeman threw a pile of pencils at Mother. Even contorted behind those boxes, I could see them roll toward her, all of different lengths.

“These were found in the homes of Nationalist spies,” the policeman said. “These pencils were made here, yes?”

Mother picked one up and pretended to take her time inspecting it, as if there were any way she would not recognize her own pencil.

“Yes, sir,” Mother answered smoothly. Your mother sat very still at the counter, eyes determinedly looking away from our hiding spot.

“So you admit to selling to Nationalist spies?” the policeman pressed.

“Our pencils are often passed around. We are unfortunately unable to track what happens to them after they are sold.”

“One of the spies told us they bought straight from you.”

“I have never knowingly sold to a spy.”

“You should interrogate all of your customers.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now you have supplied the enemy with the means through which they communicate. How they spread their propaganda and how they plan to bring down China.”

“We will be more careful, sir.”

“Where is your husband?”

“He died many years ago.”

“Do you have proof?”

“No. But my mother-in-law still lives here. Would you like to ask her?”

The policeman turned away.

“No. We will be keeping an eye on who you are selling your pencils to.”

“Of course.”

After they left, you pushed me out of our hiding spot. My arm had fallen asleep, and you were rubbing your back. We hated hiding, but we did not argue about it. We had heard too many rumors of what they did to young girls.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

Our mothers exchanged a look.